


The Old Ways

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: A/B/O, Knotting, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Incidents of Torture, Mpreg, Very Early Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wander into the dynamics of an A/B/O verse within the world of The Musketeers. Set early on in season 2.</p><p>The Musketeers are kidnapped by the king's new advisor, the Comte de Rochefort, who is intent on carrying out experimentation on his victims. A/B/O and h/c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Athos knows he's been slipping recently, putting all his efforts into drinking rather than training, and it's this lack of concentration that causes him to make a huge tactical error. The warehouse at the docks is a warren of storage rooms. There's no reason to go into them unprepared, they have plenty of time for thought and reconnaissance, and yet he chooses not to bother with either, impatient to get this group of smugglers captured as quickly as possible so that he can be back in Paris, drowning his sorrows. The bottle is calling loudly to him.

"Athos, we should at least watch the place for a short while," suggests d'Artagnan. "Make sure that this isn't a trap."

"He's got a point. It _has_ happened before," says Aramis with a shrug.

"We're talking about smugglers. They're not the brightest of sparks," says Athos. Everything's been so mundane recently there's no reason to suspect this will be any different.

"Some of my best friends happen to be smugglers," said Porthos, eliciting a laugh from the other two.

Athos, however, frowns with impatience and draws his pistol to move in on their target. The warehouse is dank and there's a definite aroma of rat about the place. With his lantern now lit, Athos moves through into the lower levels, on the lookout for a cache of weapons, his friends following behind him in a disgruntled silence. There's no sign of anything having been stored here for a long while, and he's about to give up the search when there's a flare of light accompanied by an acid whiff of saltpeter.

"Down," he yells as the explosion throws him backwards against a wall and he doesn't even have the chance to check that the others are all right before he passes out.

Athos awakes to find himself somewhere very different, lying supine and bound to an uncomfortably hard surface. There are none of the usual sounds of a busy harbour coming from the other side of the window, and he strains to look around him, but all he can see in the murky light are solid flintstone walls. That and the eerie sight of a hooded man standing in one corner -- a torturer perhaps, or with any luck, an executioner.

"Where are my men?" he demands, his mouth dry, his chest aching from the effort of breathing. He suspects he has at least one cracked rib as a result of the blast.

The cell door opens and to Athos’ bewilderment, in walks the Comte de Rochefort. "I see that you’ve finally regained consciousness." He stalks around the central plinth onto which Athos has been chained. "We were beginning to think you'd left us for good."

"Where are my men?" says Athos again. "If you've hurt them I'll make you pay."

Rochefort shrugs. "Don't worry unnecessarily, Musketeer. Your friends are well. Cuts, bruises, the odd broken limb, but nothing to weep over. Captain Treville and that pretty Constance are crying however. Even the king's new mistress seemed shocked to hear of your demise." He leers down at his prisoner. "An interesting development to some, but hardly a surprise to me."

Athos is still dazed from the loss of consciousness and, because of it, very muddled. Why would the contemptible little shit have captured them and then told everyone that they were dead? They're supposed to be on the same side, for God's sake. "Rochefort, release us now," he insists. "We’re the king's guard."

Rochefort laughs and the sound echoes around the chamber. “But why would I do that when I've taken so much trouble to capture you?" He squeezes Athos' shoulder in a show of comfort. "Castillo, you may begin your work again now."

The hooded man approaches, a worm like tube lying limp in his hand, and soldiers appear from the shadows to pin Athos down. Fear of the unknown turns out to be the worst horror of all and, for the first time in his life, he is truly terrified as the pipe is threaded into his gullet. 

Struggling frantically against the assault, he chokes out a few words: "What are you doing to me?" The effort, however, only causes him to retch and gagging makes things ten times worse. In the end, he can do nothing but succumb as a noxious smelling concoction is poured into a funnel and passes from there into his stomach.

Rochefort soothes him in a vile parody of a concerned nurse, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth as he takes in the fluid. "There there, Musketeer, it'll soon be over. Once Castillo here is certain the treatment has taken then we'll return you to your friends." He leans in so close that Athos can smell wine, fetid on his breath. "I can assure you this is no worse than anything that has been done to me, or to your belovéd comrades."

Athos is both frightened and relieved at these words. He’s becoming more convinced now that the others are indeed alive, and hope is the only thing keeping him sane as they drag him from the cell and along a dimly lit passageway. Another door is opened and he's thrown bodily into a room that is very similar to the one he has just vacated, the only perceivable difference being that it has three concerned faces staring down at him. 

The voices come all at once, harmonious to his ears rather than discordant, despite their incessant jabbering.

"Thank God, Athos. Are you injured?"

"You've been gone so long we thought you were dead. Did they force feed you that stuff?"

"Was that bastard Rochefort there? I'm going to tear his limbs off one by one when I get my hands on him."

Athos sits up and shuffles back against the wall, trying to control his breathing and, at the same time, make sense of all their questions. In the end he nods yes in answer to everything, looking around him in joy at those wonderful faces, bruised and battered but alive.

"I apologise," he says, hanging his head. "I shouldn't have insisted we rush in blindly." In all honesty, he’s been a disaster at his job since Anne came back into his life. He can’t cope with her taunting him from the king’s arm. He should have gone away, as he was planning to do, when she first returned. If he’d done so then the others wouldn't currently be in this predicament.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Athos," growls Porthos. "We don't have the time for it."

As always, the big man is right and Athos smiles at him and then at the rest of his brothers in turn. "So what do we know?"

"Well, for certain, that Rochefort is even more of a prick than we thought," grins Porthos.

"He drugged us and then he poisoned us all with something," says d'Artagnan in disgust.

"It's unlikely to be poison that he used," says Aramis thoughtfully. "Since none of us are ill."

"He told me it's something that's been done to him in the past," says Athos. "But he was no more specific than that."

"When Treville gets us out of here I'm going to wring Rochefort's scrawny little neck until his head falls clean off his shoulders," says Porthos.

Athos looks down at his clasped hands, wondering whether he should let them in on the rest.

"Tell us," says Aramis, who has always been able to read him better than the others. "We may as well know the worst."

"Rochefort says that everyone in Paris believes us to be dead, and I can't see why he'd lie about such a thing," says Athos. "It'll only make us all the more determined to escape."

"Too right," says Porthos, grabbing the bars of the cell window and staring outside. "So we have to fix this mess ourselves. Nothing new there."

"What can you see?" asks Athos, too tired to get up and look for himself.

"We're high up in some kind of keep," says Porthos. "There's trees, a river, fields. The usual countryside shit."

"No farmhouses or villages?" says Athos. It wouldn't help much, but it would at least give them something to aim for when they escaped: horses, food, that kind of thing.

"Nope." Porthos shakes his head. "And even if we can get the bars off, which is pretty unlikely, there's no way down. So, fellers, it looks as if we'll have to get out of here the old fashioned way." He dusts off his hands ready for a fight and a sudden grin erupts, transforming his face. "We'll wait for the right moment then beat up the guards." 

He's clearly thrilled at the idea of a gaol break, whereas Athos feels the opposite, utterly debilitated by another wave of exhaustion.

"We need to find out what Rochefort's given us before coming up with an escape plan," says Aramis. "Leaving here without any idea of what's been done would be foolish."

"Bollocks!" says Porthos, brimming over with pent up aggression. "We’ll bring Rochefort's slimy creep of a torturer back with us to Paris, provided I haven't ripped him to pieces by then."

"I have to get home to Constance," says d'Artagnan anxiously. "She thinks I'm dead."

Athos glances at Aramis who's in a similar romantic situation despite the fact it’s a secret one. He'll be hurting as much as their youngest, and so will his lover, the queen. "We’ll get out of here as soon as possible, and then Rochefort will pay for what he's done," he says in an attempt at comfort.

His words, however, are meaningless since there’s nothing they can do for now but wait this out. Aramis keeps himself occupied by playing doctor to the others. D'Artagnan has injured a wrist from falling badly and Athos, having taken the full force of the blast, is right about his cracked ribs. Porthos sustained a nasty burn to his arm and Aramis has a sprained ankle. They're all suffering from the after effects of the anaesthetic potion, but truthfully, they’re lucky to be as healthy as they are.

A meal of bread and water is eventually brought to them, the guards vigilant, well used to being outsmarted by Musketeers. They come into the cell two at a time, their pistols drawn in case of trouble, with a serving girl following warily behind them, carrying a tray of food. Blankets are also provided and when the light fades completely the four men huddle up for warmth.

"Is anyone suffering any ill effects yet?" asks Aramis, before they settle down to sleep.

The answer from every other quarter is no, but Athos thinks twice before giving his reply. As well as being impossibly tired, he feels odd, discombobulated as if his thoughts and his body are not quite his own.

"Athos?" Aramis appears worried by his silence.

"I'm fine," he answers carefully and he's almost certain he is, having nothing definitive to complain about.

By morning, however, things have gone noticeably downhill and he's feeling most unwell. His head is throbbing with pain, he's nauseous and, in addition to this, is racked with anxiety and in an uncontrollable panic to get out of the cell. 

Porthos paces up and down, clearly troubled by this out of character behaviour, and watching in concern as Aramis stills Athos in order to examine him.

"You have a fever," he says, "and your glands are extremely swollen." 

Athos moans low in his throat and pushes Aramis away from him. For some reason he can’t cope with the slightest touch. "Sorry," he mutters. "Any ideas?"

"One," says Aramis, walking over to the barred opening to call for the guards. "My friend here has the shakes. He needs liquor. Tell Rochefort he could die without it."

"I'll ask," says one of the men, after a moment or two spent debating the matter with his partner. 

A few minutes later the cell door opens and the serving girl brings in loaves of bread to break their fast, plus a large jug of brandy. "His Lordship says to eke it out for there'll be no more after this," she tells them.

Porthos crouches next to Athos, tipping a small amount of spirit into a mug and helping him sip from it. His presence is as much a comfort as the wine and Athos leans into him, pressing his face into the crook of his armpit and breathing in deeply. Porthos slumps next to him and the weight of that solid arm wrapping around him is enough to send him back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis gives Porthos a history lesson.

Aramis stares in consternation at the unusual sight. After a shaky beginning to their relationship, Porthos and Athos have been the best of friends for years, but the older man neither accepts nor offers physical comfort, and has never been known to seek it out under any circumstance.

"What's the matter with him?" mutters Porthos. "He ain't right." He warns d'Artagnan away from them with the sole of his boot and a protective growl.

A disturbing thought is beginning to form and Aramis dreads having to put it into words. It doesn't quite make sense yet, but he has an inkling of an idea that’s both complex and horrifying. "Porthos," he says, keeping his distance as the big man watches over a sleeping Athos. "Something's been bothering you recently."

Porthos looks at him with narrowed eyes. It's an odd question, especially at a time like this, and he must be wondering what it has to do with their situation. "I got left a bequest from General de Foix's estate," he says. "I don't reckon the man was my dad, but I think he knew the bastard, and so does Treville."

"So your father may have been a Musketeer?" asks Aramis. This is worrying news because it supports his current thinking in every way. Even in the recent past, all the king's regiment had to be of noble birth.

"I'm certain he was," says Porthos. "And when I get back to Paris I'm going to beat the truth out of the captain."

Porthos loves a good fight, but he's soft-hearted rather than violent in nature, and this sudden change in him is unsettling, more so now that Aramis is gaining an insight into what's going on. He needs to prepare his friends for the storm that’s about to break, although quite how he’s going to impart that kind of news he's not yet sure. He wonders if it would be best to share his suspicions with the others before Athos wakes up, but on the other hand it seems wrong not to involve him from the beginning. If what Aramis is thinking turns out to be true then it will affect Athos the most by far.

In the end, though, Porthos gives Aramis little choice in the matter, demanding answers in a voice that's hushed but insistent. "What's wrong with him?" He indicates Athos with a nod of the head. "And what does it have to do with my father?"

“This is going to sound crazy, but bear with me.” Aramis' instinct is to move closer, but if physiological changes are already happening, as he strongly suspects they are, then it would be wise to keep a distance. "In the old days nobility was determined by ancient bloodlines, and so in order to keep these pure, aristocracy bred differently to commoners."

"What are you talking about, Aramis?" says Porthos and, without being aware of it, he's nuzzling protectively at Athos' hair. "I didn't ask for a bloody history lesson."

"Amongst the nobility, alphas mated with omegas to ensure the continuation of an aristocratic lineage," says Aramis. "This was bred out of these families a long time ago, the differences in them becoming vestigial." He stands up and stares out of the window, hoping for a magical way out of this. "God, Porthos. I think Rochefort has found a way to make those alpha and omega characteristics resurface. I think he's experimenting on us."

"Athos said Rochefort had this same thing done to him," says d'Artagnan, looking around at everyone. "It must have been part of his own torture at the hands of the Spanish inquisitors."

Porthos glares at his friends. "I don't mean to be picky or nothing, but what the hell are you talking about? What are alphas and omegas?"

This is the part Aramis has been dreading most. How can he relay this to Porthos without his friend hitting the roof? The old stories have taken on mythical status and for decades have been confined to historical texts, most of which he hasn't read since he was a boy. He's far from an expert and if this is actually happening, he has no idea of how to help out when the time comes.

Taking in a deep breath, he begins to speak: "Alphas and omegas don't obey gender laws. When an omega comes into season an alpha takes them as their mate. This is the only time they will conceive, but the pregnancies that result from it can be multiple."

"Shit," says d'Artagnan.

Aramis can see that d'Artagnan, being a farmer's son, has far more understanding of the situation than Porthos. Though, to be fair, their friend is totally preoccupied with Athos who might be fast asleep, but is preparing for heat and must be giving off waves of pheromones.

"So," the young man continues, his voice growing angrier and louder by the second. "Athos has no idea of what’s been done to him, or what's happening to his body. This is barbaric. Why would Rochefort do this to us?"

"Because he's insane," says Porthos, his volume matching d'Artagnan's.

"Hush," says Aramis urgently. "Don't wake Athos just yet. We need time to think."

"I've _been_ thinking," says Porthos in a low rumble. "And what you’re trying to tell me is that I'm supposed to fuck him." He's furious but is managing to keep his anger on a tight rein for now. "It's not happening, so don't even ask. Aramis, you'll sleep with anyone, you do it." The big man rounds on d'Artagnan. "And we can all see you like him in that way more than the rest of us put together."

Aramis isn’t offended by this outburst and only wishes things were that simple. He also wishes Porthos could recognise his own body language. "Heat is different, my friend," he says carefully. "The drugs haven't affected d'Artagnan or me, but there are physical changes happening to both you and Athos. When the time comes, the urge to mate will be too strong for either of you to resist." 

Porthos glares at them angrily. "Athos is my friend. I love him as a brother, but nothing more and I'm not going to fuck him."

Aramis has no choice but to explain the consequences. "If we can't find a solution to this in a very short time then he’ll go into heat, and the problem, mon ami, is that he could die if he isn't mated by an alpha. The sex simply isn't the same as it is for beta couples."

With Porthos getting up to prowl the room, Athos slips sideways into the nest of blankets. He curls into a foetal position, murmuring out sounds of discomfort in his sleep, and when d'Artagnan steps a pace closer to throw another blanket over him Porthos snarls at the boy to warn him off.

"What am I doing?" he asks in horror and Aramis pulls him into a fierce hug. 

"It's biology," he says. "Nothing more than that. D'Artagnan and I love you both, and I promise we'll look after you."

D'Artagnan joins the huddle of bodies. "We'll get through this somehow." He smiles at the other two men. “And when it’s over we’ll string that bastard up from a flagpole.”

"By his pea sized bollocks," adds Porthos.

"What lovely sentiments, and what a beautiful bond of friendship there is between the four of you," sneers Rochefort from the barred opening in the cell door. "Not quite the theatre I was hoping for, but an interesting spectacle nonetheless. It would have been far more exciting to watch three alphas tearing each other apart over one omega, but still, never mind." He laughs. "I have to say, I never expected the Comte de la Fère to be the breeder of your pack. Mind you, his wife is clearly the dominant one, so I suppose it makes perfect sense."

"Undo this now, Rochefort, or I'll slit your throat at the first opportunity," says Aramis. "And that's a promise."

"I'm afraid there _is_ no undoing of it," says Rochefort. "But at least Athos will have the dignity of being taken by a friend." He turns his eyes to Porthos. "Is that a dignity or an indignity? Only you will know. Oh, and a word of warning, Musketeer. Try not to impregnate him. The heat is bad, but a whelping is the worst of all things."

Rochefort strides off, boot heels clicking on the flagstone floors, and the three men look at each other uneasily as another meagre meal is carried in for them by the girl. There's no point in trying to escape now, because there's no telling when Athos will go into heat. This extended sleep must mean that his body is in full preparation for what's coming.

"How can he have a baby?" asks d'Artagnan quietly. "I don't understand."

Aramis shrugs. He'd like to examine Athos before he comes into season, but he doubts his friend will tolerate this intrusion, not after the way he pushed him off earlier. There’ll be time once his initial heat is over, _if_ he survives the mating. Porthos is a big, strong man and there's no knowing how brutal he’ll become. Or how receptive Athos will be to the idea of having sex with him. According to the history books, omegas are renowned for being unpredictable, especially the males.

"I don't want to do this," says Porthos in a miserable voice, but the way he's gazing at the sleeping man implies that things between them are evolving quickly. He may not _want_ to fuck Athos, but, without a doubt, he's already bonding, preparing mentally and physically to take him as a mate. "Will it happen just once?"

Aramis shakes his head and is about to enter into further explanation when Athos becomes startled by something in his dreams and wakes suddenly, sitting bolt upright and clutching at his ribcage. Porthos races to his side.

"What's going on?" says Athos, stumbling in his hurry to get to his feet. Going over to the cell door he yanks at the bars, as if that will do any good. "Let me out of here," he yells, pushing the others away in his desperation to be free.

"We're Rochefort’s prisoners, remember?" says Aramis in a calming voice. "And we'd all like to create merry hell, but it'll do us no good." He passes Athos the mug of cognac, and with Porthos as a steadying presence behind him, the man finally relaxes a little. "Sit," says Aramis gently. "Try not to do any more harm to those ribs, because I'm afraid you and Porthos have a difficult time ahead of you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.

Athos listens to Aramis’ detailed explanation of what’s happening to him, but he can't take much of it in. Still muzzy from sleep, he tries to clear his head with brandy, but the more he drinks the sicker he feels and, in the end, he passes the mug to d'Artagnan.

"You don't want it?" says the boy in surprise and Athos shakes his head.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you, Athos?" asks Aramis. 

Athos leans back, using Porthos as a pillow, and sighs. "The old ways," he says slowly. "But I thought they'd died out centuries ago.”

“It appears the Spanish have found a way of reversing this and are using it as a means of torture,” says Aramis. “The drug Rochefort gave us is affecting you and Porthos.” 

“That's another thing," says Athos. "I thought this was all about lineage." He turns his head to look apologetically at his potential mate, and can feel the bond between them start to initiate as the hormone levels in him increase. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful…”

Porthos laughs and rests a hand on Athos’ thigh. "I might not look as noble as you, but apparently I have gallons of blue blood in me." 

That deep voice is a comfort. Athos smiles at him and with the panic now subsiding, he rests his head against Porthos' shoulder. "Are you all right with this?" he asks softly.

Porthos brushes his mouth against Athos' temple. "I'm trying," he says. "It's difficult, I admit, but I'll do my best by you."

"I'm sorry," says Athos and, in doing so, feels omega for the first time. It's frightening, petrifying even, but things could be so much worse. Porthos is a good choice of mate, his body is telling him. Treville would be first choice as pack alpha, but Porthos is young, strong and loyal. He's also extremely handsome and will sire healthy, good looking pups. Athos shudders, sickened that he can think in such terms.

"It's not your fault." Porthos wraps them both in his cloak. "We'll get through it together, the way we always do." He looks up at the others who are hovering nearby, allowing them time to come to terms with this. "All four of us, yeah?"

"We will," agrees Aramis. "Now, Athos, my friend, you seem to know something of the old ways?"

"Only what my grand-mère used to tell me when I was a child." Athos feels himself blush. "I know it was to do with bloodlines, but I have little idea of what's involved in a practical sense."

"Have you ever slept with a man before?" asks Aramis.

Athos nods. There's no point in being coy over this. "A few times," he says, aware that the others are surprised, perhaps even shocked by this revelation. "When the urge took me." That occasional need makes far more sense to him now: a result of his inner omega crying out to be mated.

"That's good," says Aramis. "It should simplify things for you both. And to answer your previous question, Porthos." He claps a hand on his friend's shoulder and Athos suppresses an unhappy whine at the display of intimacy between them. "No, it won't happen just once. Athos could be in heat for days, during which time he'll give off such strong pheromones that you'll want to do nothing but mate with him."

"God, this is embarrassing," says Athos with a smirk. "I'm going to murder Rochefort as soon as I lay my hands on him."

"There's a queue," says Porthos. "Get in line." His laughter is an energetic boom of delight and, as a result of it, the tension in the cell decreases rapidly.

He's not just good, he's the perfect choice, thinks Athos' emerging omega. Surreptitiously, he reaches downwards, a hand wandering over his belly and then lower still. All seems the same as before, so how is he supposed to be bred?

“I don’t understand. Why do you know so much about this?” he says to Aramis.

“When I was younger, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be a surgeon, a physician or an abbé,” smiles Aramis. “So I spent years researching all things theological and biological.”

“And chose, in the end, to be a soldier,” laughs Porthos. “That makes sense.”

Athos knows that it was an unfortunate matter in Aramis’ past which resulted in him joining the military, and can see from the expression on his friend's face that he is melancholy just thinking about it. “I'm always grateful you made the choice you did,” he says with an arch of his eyebrow. “But never more so than now.”

“Thank you,” says Aramis with affection. “Is there anything you wish to ask me about, chéri?”

Athos huffs with laughter and the others look at him in surprise. Has it really been so long since he made such a sound? “I have at least a thousand questions,” he says, “and that’s just to begin with.”

“Then I’ll leave you both in peace to have your chat.” Porthos manages to drag himself away from Athos and moves over to the other side of the cell, where he and d’Artagnan begin playing a fresh round of a game that they’ve devised, which involves small stones and the cracks in the flagstones.

Athos and Aramis, meanwhile, make themselves comfortable amongst the pile of blankets. 

“I’d give anything to finish that brandy,” says Athos as he stares mournfully at the battered pewter jug on the tray.

“It won’t hurt to have a drink,” says Aramis. “In fact it might help overcome the nerves.”

“If only," sighs Athos. "Unfortunately my body disagrees with you and appears to think it would be a terrible idea.” He rests a hand on his belly. "I suppose it's all to do with preparing to pup.” He glances at Aramis. “I know that a first heat isn’t likely to be a pleasant experience. I've heard of knotting and I think we should warn Porthos about it.”

“We must,” agrees Aramis.

“But if I do conceive from the mating then how am I supposed to birth a litter?” continues Athos.

“Can you feel your body adjusting to accommodate the knot?” asks Aramis.

Athos nods. Changes are happening inside him, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but decidedly odd.

“And if your sac is developing enough to carry, in time a birth canal will do the same and allow you to whelp naturally.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” says Athos. “All of this was dormant in me, Aramis. What if the drug was only powerful enough to do half the job?”

“From what Rochefort told us, when you were asleep, it sounds as if he’s pupped in the past,” says Aramis. “Castillo might be a monster, but he appears to know what he is doing.”

“I don’t want to get pregnant,” says Athos in a monotone. To die during heat would be the easy way out of this. If he has children then his career as a soldier will be over. And how is supposed to bring up pups as a lone omega without a pack to support him? He has no betas or wet nurses to help him look after a litter. His alpha is being forced to breed with him. They won’t bond in the old way and Porthos will have no desire to stay with him afterwards. “Aramis, you have to make this stop,” he begs and his low whimper of despair is enough to have Porthos racing to his side immediately.

“What’s the matter?” the big man asks, an arm hooking around him. “You feeling rough?”

Athos shakes his head, but then pushes himself against Porthos who nuzzles into the base of his neck. His body reacts to the stimulation, pheromones bubbling over, and the rumble of desire from Porthos is unmistakable, as is his prominent erection. The heat is beginning and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.

Throbbing somewhere deep inside with unimaginable need, Athos can feel an embarrassing seep of fluid coming from him and he looks from Porthos to Aramis in a panic. 

“Take off your clothes,” says Aramis. “Get under the blankets with each other. You need to prepare for this now.”

“Fuck!” says Porthos as he’s stripping off. He has his back turned to them, but is looking down at himself. “Things aren’t normal over here.” He looks over his shoulder at Aramis who has a quick peek at the situation.

“Alphas have extremely well developed erectile function and larger testicles," he explains. "They also form a knot at the base of the penis during sex in order to breed.”

“Christ alive,” says Porthos, looking down at himself and then at Athos, who by now has undressed and buried himself under the blankets, barely able to contain his excitement at the sight of his naked mate. “Is he going to manage this?”

“He’s changing physically too,” Aramis assures him. “Go see to him. He needs you. Try and forget that d’Artagnan and I are even here.”

“Easier said than done.” Even amidst the horror of this experiment, Porthos still loves to entertain. “You try fucking one of your best friends with the rest of them six feet away from the action.”

Athos tries to smile at this comment, but is racked by a sudden bout of pain and, arching his back, he groans in misery. He’s sticky with natural lubricant; his cock is fully erect and yet it is no longer the focal point of his desire. Instead there’s a burn, an ache deep inside of him, and he understands, with inherited knowledge, that an ovum is about to be released. “Porthos,” he begs, no longer himself. No longer in control.

His keening immediately brings Porthos to him and before long they're beneath the blankets, touching, nipping, stroking each other in a feral but gentle display of mutual want.

"You're wet," says Porthos, mystified as he explores Athos with his fingers.

Ashamed by the changes in him Athos ducks his head, but Porthos nudges at him lovingly. "It's amazing," he says and as he touches Athos from cock to arse he begins to shake with need. " _You’re_ amazing. Are you ready for me?"

"Soon," gasps Athos.

The more Porthos works Athos with his hands, the wetter he gets and, as if it wasn't big enough already, he can feel that cock expanding against him to massive proportions. They must mate now whilst they still can. The heat rises until Athos is at boiling point and, jamming his body hard against Porthos, he licks into his armpits, tasting the musk from his glands.

"Jesus Christ!" Growling, Porthos pushes Athos over onto his knees and tongues into him, rimming then sucking and finally pulling back. "You have to be ready for me now, Athos. I’ve got to fuck you."

Athos nods once and whines again with need. Embarrassed by this debasement, he glances sideways to see the other two men watching them with avid fascination and no hint of disgust. It reassures him that this is a good thing and he presents to Porthos, with a slight shimmy of the hips to encourage him to mate.

"God, yes!" Porthos moans as the bulbous head of his cock pushes against Athos and that softened ring of muscle suddenly gives way.

"Fuck!" mutters Athos, his head resting on his hands as he takes deep breaths and encourages his omega to surface. He's never had anything this immense inside him before and this is just the start of the mating. The pain is extreme, but behind it, lurking at the very edge of his senses, is something deeply arousing that drives him on.

"You're amazing," says Porthos again as he scrapes his nails down Athos' back, pinching and squeezing as he eases himself inside. "Never felt anything like this before. Seriously never."

The urge for a hard coupling comes upon them all of a sudden, from a spike in the hormones perhaps, and with a vice like grip on his shoulder, Porthos rides into Athos over and over again until he’s moaning with pleasure. He can feel the knot begin to swell inside his channel, and rather than frightening him, it tips him over the edge and he comes for the first time with his mate in the slow process of locking into him.

Porthos isn't subtle when he climaxes. It's rough, rowdy and extremely vocal and Athos cries out at the burst of heat surging over his gland and on towards his ovum. He jerks backwards, rearing into him, trapped by the knot and the tight grip Porthos has on his hip.

"That's it, pretty man," Porthos moves a hand to his cock and is stroking him hard. "I’ll see to you good."

Athos moans. There's a hint of teeth at his shoulder. It's not even close to a bonding bite but it excites them both enough to come again at the prospect, and as they climax together Porthos drags them over onto their sides. Twice bred, there is more to come, even from this first session, and Athos is helplessly aroused by the idea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and d'Artagnan discuss the old ways.

"How long will they mate for?" asks d'Artagnan.

"At least an hour until the knot releases and then I imagine they'll sleep for a good long time in preparation for the next session," answers Aramis.

He's trying desperately not to think about what's happening on the other side of the cell, but it's proving impossible. His eyes are constantly drawn to the mating pair and he can't concentrate on anything but them. 

He’s not the only one who’s struggling. The levels of pheromone are high enough now for any beta to react to it and d'Artagnan is both young and keenly sexed. His erection is noticeable and Aramis wonders whether they should both take care of themselves before the tension ramps up.

"Will it carry on this way until Athos' heat is over?" says d'Artagnan, glancing at him, his face red with embarrassment. "Aramis, I don't think I can take much more. Certainly not days of this."

"See to yourself," says Aramis in a low voice. "They won't know and, if they did, they won't care. Do what you must."

D'Artagnan fumbles to undo the buttons of his breeches. They have no blankets left for themselves and so he pulls his boat cloak over himself to partially shield what he's about to do. "What about you?" he asks wide eyed from a mixture of desire, fear and hope.

Aramis knows it would help d'Artagnan out if he joined in, but he's not ready yet. "You go ahead. I'll wait a while longer," he says with a comforting smile. He imagines the unknotting will become as frenzied as the initial lock of bodies and he'll save any necessary release for then. He's not ashamed at the idea of masturbating--this whole thing is nothing more than a result of experimentation--but that doesn’t mean he’ll enjoy coming over a forced mating between his best friends.

The steady thump from beside him is rhythmic enough that it relaxes him. He refuses to look to his left--he doesn't want to embarrass d'Artagnan any further--and instead watches the coupling that's happening in front of him, surprised at how tender Porthos is being with Athos, touching him softly and murmuring to him once they've ridden the peak of each orgasm. There's no mouth kissing between them, that's for bonded pairs only, and the saddest part of this whole experience is that they would clearly have accepted each other as life mates had this been their true biology. Instead, thanks to Rochefort, their future as comrades is now uncertain, never mind their friendship. If that were to end, it would be devastating for all four of them and Aramis is determined not to let it happen.

As expected, when the knot begins to release, Porthos manoeuvres Athos back onto all fours and they rut out the end of their mating, both alpha and omega excited by a successful first breed. The muffled moans of pleasure from d'Artagnan add to the erotiscism of the moment, but Aramis is still restrained, too concerned about the idea of Athos being pupped to think of his own sex.

"How was it?" he asks once the pair are done and lying quietly together, and pouring cognac into a mug he hands it over.

"Fine," says Porthos in a gruff voice. "Good and tiring." He swallows the brandy down and passes the cup back to Aramis who refills it and holds it out again.

Athos shakes his head. "I'd rather water," he says, smiling gratefully at d'Artagnan when he brings some over.

"It may not be clean," warns Aramis.

"It hasn't made any of us sick so far," points out d'Artagnan and Aramis is relieved that they can be so easy with each other after all that has happened.

"I'm just being careful," he explains.

"But you don't need to be mother hen," laughs Porthos and the kiss to the top of Athos' head is a clear sign to say that he is protector now.

Aramis takes comfort from this and understands that his worries are simply a result of an arcane pack feeling. "Agreed," he says with a smile. "But I have one more important question before you go to sleep." He's noticed that Athos' eyelids are already shuttering with exhaustion.

"One," says Porthos. "Then leave us alone to rest."

"Are you comfortable, Athos?" Aramis asks. That amount of sex must have been difficult to cope with, especially when suffering from cracked ribs. "You're not injured in any way?"

The man smiles and looks up at his mate. "I'm fine and fit," he says, using one of Porthos’ common phrases. Whether it’s a conscious or subconscious choice, no one but Athos will ever know. It is, however, quite telling and is another bonding connection, if the looks that pass between the two men are anything to go by.

By the time the cell door opens, Porthos and Athos are fast asleep in each other's arms. A tray of food is carried in, the guards standing ceremoniously on either side of the door, and once the serving girl has departed Rochefort takes her place, pouring a flagon of wine for himself from the jug. 

He remains expressionless, but Aramis can see disappointment in his eyes and decides to play on it. "They coupled well," he says, aware that Rochefort wanted nothing more than to see them tear each other apart. "They’re an impressive pair. You must be pleased with results of your experiment."

"So far, so good," says Rochefort with a forced smile. "But if your Musketeer friend is carrying then I hope you're prepared to cut the pups out of him." He turns to leave. "Enjoy your meal. I've allowed a little meat and wine as well as the usual bread. They'll need to recoup their energy before the next bout of heat begins." He smirks at d'Artagnan. "And I suspect you will also, boy."

“Athos _will_ be able to whelp naturally?” says a panicky d’Artagnan once Rochefort has gone. “You said this was just biology.”

“Of course he will. You can see for yourself how well he’s doing,” says Aramis, nodding at the sleeping man and wishing he felt as certain as he sounded. “Rochefort’s just being a prick as usual.”

"The filthy cunt's been watching us," mutters d'Artagnan.

"Watching with his cock in his hand, no doubt." Aramis makes light of the situation. "You've done nothing wrong, d’Artagnan. We're victims of circumstance."

"Victims of Rochefort, more like,” says d’Artagnan. “We have to get out of here now.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” says Aramis, keeping a firm hold on his temper. Their youngest is upset, frightened and has now been caught pleasuring himself by a madman. It's not been the easiest of days for him.

“We’ll catch them unawares,” says d’Artagnan. “Knock them out and make a run for it.”

“Carrying with us a mated pair in the middle of heat?” says Aramis. “Fine, but you can be the one to separate them.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” says d’Artagnan, sinking despondently to the floor.

“I’m not,” replies Aramis. “I’m just pointing out the flaw in your plan.” Sitting next to hm, he drapes an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “Once the breeding is over we’ll make our escape.”

“You heard what Rochefort said.” D’Artagnan rests his head on his knees. “He’s planning on keeping us here until Athos has his pups. He’s going to make us deliver them. How long is an omega’s pregnancy?”

“Same as it is for a beta woman,” says Aramis. There’s no point in lying about this and he doesn’t regret his decision even when d’Artagnan lets out a single sob of misery. Aramis looks at the sleeping form of Athos and wonders how they’ll cope without him if things go wrong. His chances of survival are poor if he can deliver naturally and nonexistent if he has to be cut.

The blankets have been taken over by Athos and Porthos, so instead Aramis uses all the heavy boat cloaks as bedding for him and d'Artagnan, and it's a comfort to breathe in the smell of the others as he drifts off to sleep. He's not sure how long he's been out when dreams drag him back to consciousness and he opens his eyes to see, in the dim flicker of candlelight, Porthos lying next to Athos, feeding him morsels of food and stroking him with a gentle hand as they talk. Their words are too quiet to hear, but the picture they portray is a devoted one, and Aramis prays that something good will come out of this nightmare.

He can't keep his eyes off them, although neither man has the slightest idea that they are under observation, utterly absorbed, as they are, in each other. Little by little things between them change and as the heat begins to build their talk dies down and sex takes over.

"It's incredible to watch," murmurs d'Artagnan.

Aramis looks around in surprise. The young man had been out for the count just minutes ago. "Rest while you can," he advises.

“Can’t.” D'Artagnan shakes his head and smiles awkwardly. "It's the hormones," he explains. "They affect me too much to sleep."

Aramis suspects that d’Artagnan has noble roots to his ancestry and the old ways are calling to him. He would have made a powerful alpha and Aramis is relieved that this hasn't come to the fore in a more significant way. The idea of Porthos and d'Artagnan fighting over the right to fuck Athos is unthinkable. Their friendship may have been strong enough that they would, in the end, have agreed to share their mate, but blood would have spilled in the negotiations and it would have been twice as tiring and twice as traumatising for Athos. He would also have had the confusion of birthing pups from two different sires.

"This is beautiful," says d'Artagnan, watching in awe as Porthos mounts Athos, holding him in place with those big muscular arms. "It's a shame it died out."

Up until then, Aramis had been fighting the onset of arousal, but d'Artagnan's words immediately dampen his ardour. "It's barbaric," he says, his lips tightening into an angry line. "Neither of these two chose to be doing this. It's forced and it's unpleasant to say the least."

"Only because Rochefort has interfered with nature."

Aramis wonders whether d’Artagnan is being deliberately obtuse. He looks at Porthos who is now locked into Athos, releasing another load of semen to breed him, and though they might be enjoying the sex there's nothing beautiful about it once you scratch the surface. It's nothing more than a rape of both parties. 

"There’s rarely a chance for alphas and omegas to fall in love," he says. "Breeding mostly happens as a result of situation and circumstance."

"The old families must have chosen to mate their children?" says d'Artagnan. Even as they speak, his hand is working at his cock.

Once again Aramis’ eyes are drawn to the mating, but this time he's seeing it for what it is. The beauty of sex, as far as he is concerned, lies in its freedom and mutual delight and he hates this claustrophobic coercion. He’s also glad that his libido appears to hate it as much as he does. 

"An arranged match is almost as repellent as a heat," he says, thinking of the king and queen who were married off as children.

The aristocracy are privileged in many ways, and they may no longer practice forced breeding, but they are still just as trapped. His darling Anne is a caged bird with no hope of release.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to go badly wrong for Athos and Porthos.

As the days progress, Athos finds himself losing touch with reality. The mating has fulfilled an inner need that has been lying dormant in him, and he’s pleased to discover that Porthos feels the same way, having admitted as much during their rests. When the others talk of escape, a panic begins to build. If they stay here then he’ll have a pack surrounding him and somewhere to birth his litter safely and quietly. He knows this is omega trying to overrule Athos, but the voice is growing louder by the minute.

The situation changes as he approaches his fourth session of this heat. He's irritable rather than excited and though his body reacts in the usual way, becoming wet and erect as Porthos nuzzles him playfully, the pupping feels different. Their mating progresses, but shattered beyond belief, he can barely hold himself on all fours and Porthos has to support him as they knot. There’s discomfort from this breeding, a screaming in his head to stop, and he struggles to free himself.

“Athos, no," says Porthos, holding on to him tightly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Athos understands, but the internal pain is making him tense up. Porthos’ cock is far too big for him when he's in this much distress and his omega is frightened, fighting harder to get away.

"Aramis," yells Porthos. "There's something wrong."

Aramis comes over to see what's the matter. He keeps a wary distance at first, but then encouraged by Porthos, he crouches close to Athos to see how he's bearing up. "Are you in trouble?" he asks.

The cool hand on Athos' forehead is a small relief in a confusing and overheated world. "Yes," he grinds out through clenched teeth. He'd like to be able to explain this in words, but his animal instincts are simply pushing him to leave. Once again, he's driven to find somewhere quiet and dark. Somewhere he can be alone.

"Porthos, I need to see him properly. Can you move?"

"Knotted," gasps Porthos and Athos cries out as another burst of semen washes his insides. The pain from it is intolerable.

With d'Artagnan's help they manage to shift them so that Porthos is lying on his back, propped up by the blankets with Athos in his arms, chest resting against his back.

"The ovum isn't coming away," gasps Athos, ashamed to admit that the breeding is failing. This is his only purpose. "It hurts."

"Can I touch you?" asks Aramis, bending over and looking at him with so much concern.

Athos nods, repressing a whine of misery from his omega side. If this is going wrong then what about the other pups he's conceived? What will happen to them?

"Quiet now," says Porthos. "Lean back against me, love. Relax. It'll soon be over." He takes Athos' cock in hand, squeezing rather than stroking to offer him reassurance and protection.

Aramis begins to massage his belly firmly, pressing his fists in deep and then pushing downward with slow strokes. "We need to get his egg to release before you come again, Porthos. Fertilisation now would be a bad thing."

"Oh fuck, I can't stop it," groans Porthos and Athos howls in anguish at the gush of sperm. “I’m sorry,” he says when his orgasm ends. “I hate this. I never wanted to do it. Make it stop.” He rocks Athos gently, a hand still on his cock as he licks the skin that covers that pad of shoulder muscle.

Despite the agony he is in, Athos reacts to this with a soft moan of pleasure, tilting his head to one side to expose his neck further as he pushes back against Porthos.

"Believe me, I'd give everything I owned if I could bring this to an end." Aramis looks up from what he's doing then throws them both a warning glance when he sees what's happening between them. “We have no idea if this situation is permanent,” he says. “Or what it would mean if you mate fully. Think what you’re doing, for God's sake.”

“I _am_ thinking,” growls Porthos, and as Athos looks around at him he snatches a first kiss. 

It begins as a simple press of mouths, but then they open up, nipping and snarling softly and then twisting to get closer so they can lick into each other. It's just kissing, in every way, but so much more meaningful than ever before, and even with everything going wrong, as it is, there's nowhere Athos would rather be than lying here in Porthos’ arms, knotted and whole for the first time in his life. He breaks free for a moment, looking at Porthos in wonder, then leans in to taste the testosterone laden salt from his skin, clasping a hand around the back of Porthos' neck to pull that mouth closer so they can kiss once again.

“Mine,” alpha swears as he pulls away just enough to murmur the old vow.

“Mine,” omega answers, and when Porthos bites into him Athos comes into his cupped palm then howls in agony when he is bred again.

"Get Rochefort. Get Castillo now," Aramis yells to the guard who’s peering through the opening in the cell door. "You must be ready to go," he adds in a low voice to d'Artagnan. "Use this opportunity to leave here and fetch help."

"Don't make me abandon you like this," pleads d'Artagnan. "I need to be here."

"Do it, or Athos will die," says Aramis. "This at least gives us a chance to get him home. Hopefully Lemay will know more than I do."

Athos is overwhelmed by the completion of his mating. If this was a beta ritual then he would have a band on his finger and be with Porthos in their wedding bed. He wonders if Porthos is aware of the significance, having no prior knowledge of the old ways. Beneath all these feelings, he can hear the drone of conversation from Aramis and d'Artagnan. He understands what’s being said and prays that d'Artagnan will decide to get help. There’s no point in staying here now. There’ll be no whelping.

"Please do what Aramis asks," he says to d'Artagnan.

"But Rochefort will kill you all," says d'Artagnan.

"He may, but at least then you can stop him from doing this to others." He reaches out to lay his hand on the young man's arm. "This must end here, one way or another. Outsmart them. Go and get Treville,” he says, too weak to say more.

The next breed releases Athos from the knot, but it's far from their usual joyful uncoupling. Porthos detaches as quickly and as carefully as possible, however the pain is still excessive and Athos feels himself slipping out and then back into consciousness. The anguished expression on Porthos' face is upsetting, but he manages to hold himself together, anger taking over from anxiety when Rochefort and Castillo appear, looming over to study him as if he's already dead on the mortuary slab.

The Spaniard takes off his hood to reveal an elderly face that's wizened from the sun. He looks like a kindly peasant grandfather. "Carry him to the other cell," he says to Rochefort, but when one of the guards moves closer to pick him up there's a roar of rage from Porthos.

"Get your fucking hands off him," he snarls. "He's mine."

"So it's like that, is it?" says Rochefort and Athos shies away from the fingers which trail over his bite. "I always knew Musketeers were foolish creatures, but I never knew you were this stupid."

A commotion breaks out, and in spite of the agony he's suffering, Athos smiles to himself because, from the sound of things, d'Artagnan has picked his moment and escaped.

"After him," shouts Rochefort, but his voice quickly returns to sneering tones. "Your boy will not get far. He's unarmed and injured in unfamiliar territory. My guards will soon hunt him down."

Athos has faith in d'Artagnan, but he prays the others don't brag about his skills and is thankful when they too remain silent. Racked by another spasm of pain he jackknifes in Porthos' arms.

"If this is a ruse then you will all pay for it," warns Rochefort.

"Does it look like a ruse?" growls Porthos and Athos knows there's something very wrong from the tone of his voice. Beneath the strong scent of semen he can smell blood.

"Put him on the floor so I can examine him," says Castillo.

Porthos snarls and folds his arms protectively around Athos and it's clear he has no intention of letting go. Athos presses back into him, turning his face to mouth at Porthos' neck for comfort. His omega is terrified of what's happening, even more so of being separated from his new mate.

"Porthos, you have to let go," says Aramis, his voice a gentle murmur. "We need to look after him."

The arms unlock and Athos fights as hard as he can to get back. He can't listen to Porthos' words telling him that everything will be all right, because he knows it's not true. The agony builds, burning bright, a flare of something too intense to cope with, and he passes out again as he is lifted away from his mate. He comes to, lying on the cold stone floor, and he is awake in time to hear Castillo's verdict.

"He's shedding everything that has grown inside him, embryos and organs. The heat is over," says the wizened Spaniard, his heavy accent thickening with disappointment.

"Will he survive?" asks Rochefort and Athos turns his head slowly to look at the man. What has he ever done to deserve this. He remembers thanking him for saving his life. Offering him a hand in gratitude.

"If he doesn't then I'll kill you," howls Porthos. "I'll kill you anyway." 

It's not his usual voice. It's a cry of distress, and with a desperate need to comfort him, Athos opens his eyes and reaches for Porthos' hand. They connect with sight as well as with touch. He can see mourning in those brown eyes and, though a litter was the last thing he wanted, he feels the loss too as they share their grief silently.

Castillo spreads Athos' legs for a final examination. He has no dignity left. "If the haemorrhage stops and there is no further trauma then the omega might live, but the breeding has failed. He is of no further use to us. The alpha on the other hand has much potential."

"The mating bond," says Rochefort with a hiss of annoyance. "Will that make a difference?"

Castillo shrugs. "The bleeding is showing no sign of abating so probably not."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Athos getting weaker they have to make a decision.

Outraged at these callous words from the Spaniard, Aramis snatches Rochefort's rapier from its scabbard and presents the tip to Castillo's throat. "I’ll never let you to do this to anyone again."

"Steady now, Musketeer," says Rochefort. "If you want my guards to shoot you then you're going the right way about it."

"Aramis, as much as I hate saying this, don't do it," says Porthos. "Athos needs you. I need you."

With regret, Aramis hands the sword back to Rochefort and kneels next to Athos. "Bring us clean blankets and cloths, water for both drinking and washing and a decent amount of food."

"I think you're forgetting yourself," says Rochefort. "I say what goes around here."

"And I think you're forgetting what you've done." Aramis watches as Rochefort glances briefly at Athos and, just for a moment, the man looks sympathetic.

"Bring them what they asked for," snaps Rochefort to the guards and, with Castillo at his heels, he marches out of the cell.

Finally, Aramis can give his full attention to Athos who looks up at him, pale and tired. 

"Is it over?"

Aramis isn't quite certain what he means. The shedding, or the whole ugly business. He decides that he needs to remain as blunt as always. "The pups are gone," he says examining Athos carefully. "The sac is also gone and it looks to me as if you're returning to how you were before."

"He'll be all right then?" says Porthos and Aramis notices that he and Athos are still holding hands.

"The fact that his body is beginning to change back is a good sign, but we need to stem this bleeding. Can you support his legs? We must keep them raised."

Aramis wishes that he'd had a chance to clear away some of the mess from the shedding. It isn't a pretty sight. There's nothing recognisable from such an early breed, but the trauma Athos has been through is evident. 

"Love?" says Porthos as he lifts Athos' legs until they're resting on him. It's a simple word, but is exactly what's needed.

"I'll be fine," says Athos to reassure Porthos. "Thank God it's over."

The sadness in his eyes contradicts his words and Aramis reaches for his other hand. "You're one of the strongest people I know and you have our support. You'll get through this the way you get through everything."

"By getting drunk and maudlin?" smirks Athos, but that half smile isn't close to real.

When the serving girl arrives, carrying water and a bundle of clean rags, she’s clearly upset by what she sees. "I'll bring you food and drink," she says to Aramis and then adds in a quieter voice: "Is there anything particular you need? I'll try my best."

"To get away from here," says Aramis with a wry smile. "Failing that, as many blankets as you can find. Brandy or wine. Meat and cheese rather than just bread."

The soldiers are also distressed at the situation and Aramis watches them shuffle out of the cell. They're Red Guard, hand picked for the task, and Rochefort must be paying them a generous supplement to their salary, but the fact that their prisoners are King's Musketeers has not been kept secret from them. Rochefort's arrogance may yet be his downfall, even more so than his insanity.

The water in the bowl is warm from the copper and Aramis kneels once more to clear away the mess and wash the blood and semen from Athos' body.

"You shouldn't have to do this," says Athos, looking away from Porthos for a moment.

"Actually, as beta, it would be my job to look after you through heat," smiles Aramis. "So you're wrong."

"We'd be a terrible pack," murmurs Athos. "Too many damn alphas." He smiles weakly.

"Treville I get," says Porthos and then he looks incredulous. "Not d'Artagnan too."

"He was in quite a state watching you two," laughs Aramis. "But don't let on I told you."

"If he fetches help then I'll never tease him about anything ever again," says Porthos. "And that's a solemn promise."

"Do you think he will?" asks Aramis, drying Athos off and placing a wad of rags beneath him. There's no sign of the bleeding letting up yet and so he covers his friend with blankets to keep him warm.

Athos smiles at him. "If anyone can get to Paris it's d'Artagnan."

Aramis switches places with Porthos so that the big man can wash and dress. "You have a lot of faith in that boy," he says with affection. He's proud of the way Athos has taken d'Artagnan under his wing.

"One day he'll be the greatest of us all," says Athos, watching as Porthos stands naked and scrubs himself down.

"Let's hope that day comes soon, eh," says Porthos, catching Athos looking at his nude self and then winking in his direction.

This small moment gives Aramis hope that the two men will get through this with some kind of relationship intact, provided that the bleeding stops soon and they are rescued. There are far too many _if onlys_ for his liking. When the girl brings in a tray of food she's unattended for the first time, and if they'd been prepared for this then perhaps they could have made their move. He and Porthos share a look of frustration, but what can they do now?

Changing places with Aramis once more, Porthos manoeuvres Athos into a comfortable position where they can be close and still keep his legs elevated. Aramis lies with them as pack and helps them to food and drink. At least now Athos can take a little brandy. It will hopefully relax him enough to sleep.

Surprisingly, after the nightmare they've been through, they all manage to get a few hours rest, curled together with Porthos and Aramis on either side of Athos. When morning comes, Aramis awakes, hoping that the situation will be improved, but unfortunately this isn’t the case and there’s still far too much blood coming away. The shedding must be over by now. Aramis cleans up as best he can, trying not to disturb the sleeping pair, but Athos looks blearily at him as the cold water splashes his skin. 

"It's not good, is it?"

Aramis scrapes a hand through his hair. No, it's not good, but he's hardly going to tell his friend that nugget of information. Ultimately, hope is all they have left and he must do his best to keep it alive. "Beta women bleed for weeks after they've had their babies."

In one simple sentence he's managed to upset both himself and Athos. They both fall silent, mourning their losses. 

"Don't," says Porthos, sitting up and throwing an arm around each of their shoulders. "We don't think about this, you hear me. We're getting out of here now. We're going back to Paris and we're getting you well." He ruffles Athos' hair. "This is not the time to be miserable."

“I believe you’re right, my friend,” says Aramis.

Athos nods in agreement. “We may as well try, though I doubt I’ll be much use to you.”

They come up with a predictably simple plan that has only a low chance of success, but seeing as they're in an empty cell with nothing but a jug and a tray as weapons, they don't have many options. Cloths and blankets are torn into long strips and once they're ready and Athos is dressed to go, he puts on a show and screams out in pain.

"Guards, we need you in here to hold him down," shouts Aramis. "Quick. He's fitting. He's going to rupture himself."

The first one in, the kinder of the two, is coshed with the pewter jug by Porthos and the second then has his throat slit, ear to ear, by means of his own parrying dagger. The unconscious man now bound and gagged, both guards are then covered with blankets and the Musketeers make their escape, Porthos lugging Athos over his shoulder as they sneak down the spiral staircase.

"I hate this," Athos mutters, railing against being treated like a sack of potatoes.

"Shut it," says Porthos. "Either I carry you, or we leave you behind. Take your pick."

Problems arise when they meet the young serving girl coming in the opposite direction. She looks at the three men, tips her head to one side thoughtfully and then speaks: "Follow the stairs to the very bottom then take the west passage. Ten paces along you'll come to a door. It's unlocked and leads to the lower courtyard. The armoury is guarded at all time, but not the stables which are immediately to your left. Most of the guards are still on the hunt for your friend so you stand a good chance of getting away."

"Thank you," says Aramis. "What will you do?"

"Take the tray upstairs then go back to the kitchens and pretend all is well," says the girl with a shrug. "Be quick before anyone notices you’re gone."

They make their way to the basement of the keep and are almost at the door when Athos hisses at Porthos to stop. Aramis turns in time to see him bracing himself and then throwing a dagger at a lone guard who’s spotted them. He's skilled with knives and the man goes down with hardly a sound.

"Good work." Aramis runs back to retrieve all the weapons from the soldier and hide the body in a recess.

“You’re more useful than you thought,” says Porthos to Athos as he holds him close for a moment. 

They murmur to each other before preparing to move on and Aramis is conflicted by what he sees in them. It’s hard to put into words, but they appear to be so much closer than a beta couple. "Athos, can you ride?" he says as soon as they reach the stables. 

"Yes," says the older man, but Porthos berates him with a look.

"You'll come with me," he says. "I'll not have you passing out from blood loss."

"Speed is of the essence and we'll be far quicker with three horses," counters Athos. "Also, Porthos, it's my decision to make."

The power struggle is an awkward one and Aramis stays out of it, tacking up three horses ready. Athos is currently leaning against the stable wall, unable to support his own weight and obviously not in a fit condition to ride, but is fighting hard to push aside his omega.

The clattering sound of hooves on cobblestones brings about a sudden end to the argument. Aramis peers out of the stable doors to see an entire troop of guards returning from patrol.

"Is d'Artagnan with them?" asks Porthos.

"No," says Aramis with relief, "but there's no way we can hide from this many soldiers."

"Then we find a place to make a stand," says Athos. 

Aramis shrugs and nods. It's do or die--most likely die--and after loosing the horses and geeing them out of the stables as a distraction, he and Porthos help Athos through a side door where they slip into the shadowed entrance of a small feed store. 

"We're pretty much fucked," says Porthos with a resigned grin. "I have to say, it's been an honour knowing you both." He chucks Athos under the chin with a crooked finger and then kisses him on the mouth. "Who'd've thought it, eh?"

"Who indeed?" says Athos with a raised eyebrow.

Aramis smiles. Forced or not, his two friends have found something new in each other and it's heartwarming to see them establish a relationship so quickly. An alarm goes up from the keep, someone has apparently discovered their escape, and all hell is breaking loose in the courtyard. The gates are too far away to make a run for it and so, with pistols loaded he takes aim and fires.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Praying for a miracle, the Musketeers make their stand.

Athos has been expecting to make an acquaintance with his maker for a number of years, but he never imagined it happening under this bizarre set of circumstances, bleeding out from a failed pupping, with his best friend turned mate holding him upright.

He aims and shoots, as does Porthos, and when their targets go down in quick succession, the two men exchange a look of satisfaction. Alerted to their presence, the guards turn to take them on when there is the blesséd sound of gunpowder and the courtyard fills with familiar battle cries. The company of Musketeers must have been following Rochefort's soldiers, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

"I told you d'Artagnan would make it," says Athos with a weak smile as he leans heavily on the stone ledge and picks off the enemy, relieved that the Red Guard uniforms are so distinctly different. He fights on until his legs fail him and then slips down to the dusty floor, where, propped against a barrel, he takes on the job of reloading pistols for his friends.

He can tell the precise moment when the battle swings in their favour by the sounds coming from the courtyard. Treville is close--Athos can hear him yelling out orders--and there are also the distinctive whoops of delight from his young protégé as the boy engages with the guards. There's nothing d'Artagnan loves better than a good swordfight.

"Stay here," says Aramis, crouching down beside Athos. "Stay safe."

The war has already been won and Athos knows that Aramis is telling him to not to die. "I'm not going anywhere," he says with a weary half smile.

"Good, because I have a ugly little rat to catch," says Aramis and as he rests his hand on Athos' forehead for a brief moment as they both look to Porthos.

“I’ll come with you,” says Porthos though his arm is resting around Athos, leaden as if he can’t bear to let go. 

“Stay with him,” says Aramis and Athos can hear the unspoken words. He’s soaked with blood and on the point of failing.

“You should go too,” he says to Porthos. “Please.” It might be easier on him if he isn't there to see him die.

“Don’t be an idiot,” mutters Porthos.

Even with the pups now gone, Athos feels the strength of their bond and takes comfort from it. "Get the bastard," he says, his eyelids falling closed.

“I’ll not leave you,” says Porthos. “And fuck anyone who makes me try. Aramis will see to Rochefort for us.”

After that there are many voices, all of them friendly, and then a transition period where once again someone tries to move him and he passes out cold. When he wakes, he’s laid out on a table, stripped of all his clothing and covered by a blanket. It’s much like it was with Castillo and his fear must be all too obvious as Treville immediately reaches for his arm to steady his nerves.

"We brought Dr Lemay with us, Athos. He's going to examine you to see what's amiss. Lie still now."

Athos turns his head away, ashamed of being discovered in this humiliating condition and wishing, once again, that the heat had killed him.

Treville bends his head close and speaks quietly in his ear. "Listen to me, son. Rochefort will pay and I'll be standing beside you when we see him hang. No one does this to my boys and gets away with it."

The low rumble of anger is a surprise to Athos. The old ways are coming to the fore; the ghost of Treville's alpha has awoken at the atrocity inflicted on his pack.

He sinks again and Porthos is there, his arms around him, mouth against his skin, his words a quiet prayer of nonsense and love, begging him to hold on.

“I'm trying,” he says with an upward tug of the lips.

“And you'll keep on doing it, or I'll punch your lights out,” says Porthos, but his beautiful smile is forced and his face wet with tears.

"I've treated an omega male once before," says Lemay, covering Athos with the blanket. "But he'd evolved naturally." His voice lowers. "Whatever drugs they gave your man are not out of his system and he's caught between beta and omega states. I don't know how to help him."

"Suppressants?" suggests Treville, his hand resting on Athos' shoulder, his grip firm.

"They're used to stop the heat occuring, but I don't know what they’d do in this case. He's had his season. Besides that, they're almost impossible to get hold of and I don't have any on me."

Athos is slipping away and hopes that this time they'll allow him the dignity of death.

"Oh no you don't, Athos." 

A hand squeezes his own with enough vigour to be painful, and he opens his eyes to see d'Artagnan sitting on the other side of him. 

"One day I'll describe the shit I had to go through to get back home to Paris, and you're going to listen to every damn word of it," says the boy.

"Then I suggest you tell me soon," says Athos with a half smile. As the blood leaks out of him he's growing weaker by the second.

"The bastard killed Castillo," comes a loud and plaintive voice. "He was dead before I got to the chamber. Still, at least I have the ringleader."

Athos turns his head to see Aramis throw Rochefort on the floor at Treville's feet.

"The Spaniard did this," says the weasel of a man, using the table to heave himself upright. "He deserved to die."

Aramis lets his violent side emerge, kicking Rochefort to the ground again and hunkering down, in menacing fashion, to lean over the man. "Tell me what we can do to help Athos, or I'll break every bone in your body, one by one." He smiles pleasantly. "I'll begin with your fingers," he says and promptly snaps the smallest one of the left hand.

Rochefort screams.

"Listen to me, Athos,” whispers Porthos, tilting his face towards his. “I hate seeing you like this, but I will never regret what happened.”

Athos can’t make out anything other than a wet, grey mist in front of his eyes. "Me either. Happy I'm yours."

“Yours.” Porthos presses his mouth to Athos’ and then moves a scant inch away. "What happened between us, whatever anyone says, it weren’t wrong."

Athos longs for them to be alone in order to say goodbye. He's worried about what will happen when he's gone and Porthos is left as an unmated alpha in a world populated by betas. If only he knew more about the old ways. At least Aramis will be there to help him.

There's a snap followed by another scream and Athos wishes he didn't enjoy the sound of the torture so much. 

"Tell us what to do to help him, Rochefort," says Treville. "Athos is the best of men. He vouched for you after the rescue of de Foix and you’re repaying him in this way. You make me sick."

"They did it to me first," spits Rochefort.

"You're no longer omega," says Treville. "But Athos still is. I can sense it." He stands up, the tip of his boot resting on Rochefort's belly. "Break one more bone, Aramis, and then we'll use the rats on him. That'll get a result."

"I'll tell the king of this abomination," hisses Rochefort.

"Don't worry," says Treville. "The king will soon know everything about you and your ways."

"Suppressants," howls Rochefort as another finger goes west. "Give them both suppressants and they'll return to beta. There are some in a bag in my pocket.”

The world is a muddle of confusion now. Athos can hear the others talking, but it’s no more than a faint buzz.

“Come on, son, wake up,” says Treville. “You need to drink this.

Athos' head lolls in Porthos' arms and he forces his eyes open to look up at the captain.

“Will it stop the bleeding?" Treville asks Lemay as Porthos helps Athos up to sitting and encourages him to sip from a cup, the contents of which remind him all too much of Castillo's treatment.

"I can't honestly say," replies the doctor. "It all depends on what damage has been done internally." 

Athos hears a low moan of despair from Porthos and tries to reassure him with a smile, but the drugs are having an immediate effect and his insides are in torsion, causing him to writhe in agony. Pushing everyone away from him he falls backwards, his head smashing against the wood as his body spasms, caught in a spiral of pain.

Ignoring a catalogue of arguments from the others, Porthos picks him up off the table, his mouth fixed on Athos' bite to calm him, and they lie together, propped against a heavy fireside chair with a blanket covering them.

"You must drink this too," Athos hears Aramis tell Porthos. "It should force your alpha back to dormancy." He can feel the muscles move as Porthos gulps down the liquid.

"You lied to us when you said there was nothing that could stop it," says Aramis to Rochefort.

"He was already in heat," says Rochefort with a careless shrug. "It would have been dangerous."

"Why did you do it?" says Treville.

"The old ways made for better survival instincts and stronger bonds between soldiers," wheezes Rochefort, recovering from a solid boot to his ribcage delivered by the captain. "These four are close and I simply wanted to see what they’d be like as a true pack."

Athos watches him sit up. "Not so," he says. "You wanted to act out your revenge and who better to use for it than Musketeers." There must be a reason for Rochefort's great hatred of them. An inadequacy perhaps. Maybe his commission was rejected by the king.

Treville orders Rochefort to be taken away to the dungeon, and once this is done Athos feels a small sense of relief wash over him that the instigator of this nightmare will be chained up, where he belongs, in a rat infested cell.

"You're looking a little better, chéri," says Aramis, laying a hand on Athos' brow.

Though they are wrapped up in each other, this time Porthos doesn't warn Aramis off and Athos supposes that this is the end of their time as a mated couple. He tries to push aside his misery. It's for the best. "I feel much improved," he says in reply to Aramis. "The pain is gone and the bleeding seems to have stopped."

"I'll ask the girl to draw you a bath, says d'Artagnan, a hand clamping down on Athos’ shoulder and they may now be returning to beta orthodoxy, but it seems to him that they are still pack and closer than ever.

"We'll stay here for the night," says Treville and he smiles at Athos. "It was a fair old ride and we need to give you both time to recover."

Athos realises that he's been guilty of selfish thinking. He'd never once considered Porthos' feelings in this. It's been as much of a shock for the big man as it has for him. More perhaps because he had no previous inclination towards sodomy the way Athos did. "How are you bearing up?" he asks quietly.

Porthos mouths the bite tenderly. "Not sure yet," he says in an undertone. "It's like something's missing."

Athos nods and then inclines his head to allow Porthos easy access to his neck and shoulder. They're still warm with each other, close and relaxed, but that overwhelming sense of ownership is diminishing. The bond will not be there much longer.

The bathtub in the washroom is too small for them to fit in it together, but they take turns at washing, during which time both men have an opportunity to check that they are physically back to themselves. 

Porthos tugs himself to a quick erection then stares down at his cock which is large, but no longer of gargantuan proportions the way it had been as a mating alpha. "I'll miss it," he says with a rueful smile. "But I won't miss the other stuff."

Athos remains silent as he dries off and dresses in clean smallclothes that d'Artagnan has brought from his quarters at the garrison. He's never come harder than with that knot swelling against his gland and he doubts he'll readily forget the sensation.

"Athos?"

"Hurry up and get dressed so we can eat," he urges Porthos with a wan smile. "I'm famished and I'm sure you must be too." The wine is the bigger draw for him. He could do with oblivion tonight.

Unfortunately, it turns out that his brothers and captain have no intention of letting him get anywhere close to being as outrageously drunk as he desires. Instead, they settle down and tuck in to a good meal at the long table in the dining hall. A fire is burning in the hearth, the food is varied and delicious and Porthos is attentive with Athos, making sure he eats more than he drinks.

When the time comes for bed, Porthos takes the jug of wine from Athos' hand and puts it back on the table. "You're sleeping with me so I can keep an eye on you," he says with a gentle smile of encouragement. "You don't need to get drunk. I'll make sure you're all right."

Athos is uncertain about the idea of them spending the night alone together, wondering whether it would be better to break this off now before matters grow any more complicated than they already are. He's sure that wine would be the best solution all round.

"Go with Porthos," insists Treville and Athos finds he doesn't have the strength to argue with his captain.

The room they are sharing has an ornate double bed surrounded by embroidered canopies. Rochefort's without doubt, thinks Athos, but then, too tired to care, he pushes the notion aside.

"We're still mated for now," says Porthos. "I can feel the effects of it." He reaches out to stroke his fingers over the bite and Athos shivers and takes a step closer. "You feel it too."

Undressing to his braies, Athos slides between the sheets, careful to keep to his own side of the mattress. This thing that has happened, this travesty, is his fault for so many reasons: lack of concentration for one, not to mention the flood of hormones that unwillingly forced Porthos to breed him.

"Come here," says Porthos, winding an arm around and pulling him close. "You've got to stop this, Athos. You don't need to carry the world on your shoulders. You'll drive yourself mad thinking that everything is your responsibility."

Porthos knows him too well now, but nothing can stop him from thinking the worst of himself. Especially after their time in captivity.

You failed at breeding, says the voice of his omega and Athos tries to damp it down. That's a nonsense. He's an ordinary male and not designed to whelp a litter. But it's why Anne never got pregnant, says the omega. You were the one supposed to carry.

"We can be sad now," says Porthos, astutely reading Athos' thoughts once more. "We’ve got time to grieve."

"Don't," says Athos. "Please." The only way he'll get through this is to know that the breeding was wrong and the pups weren't wanted.

Porthos licks at his skin and then turns him forcefully until he's lying on his back. "It didn't happen the right way, I agree, but that doesn't mean we have to pretend that everything's fine and dandy," he says. 

He leans in close, nipping at Athos' mouth, covering him with kisses until he shies away frightened. It's too soon for sex. He's still mending.

"I won't hurt you," swears Porthos. "Not ever."

The thing that happened to them was both horrible and beautiful. It won't go away, but neither does Athos want it to become a wall. His omega cries out for its mate and Athos surrenders to the kisses, whining as Porthos clamps a hand around his cock. That tantalising mouth moves over his chest, tongue flickering across his skin, and as Porthos sucks at each nipple in turn, there's an ache and then a release as the last vestiges of hormone cause droplets of milk to form at the tip of each nub. Porthos dives onto him with a groan, lapping at the fluid and grinding against his flank as he works Athos off to orgasm.

Athos scrambles down the bed, feeding on Porthos just as greedily, licking his shaft and then suckling at the fat knob, whilst using his fingers to massage the base of the cock where that knot had once formed. It's still a sensitive area and Porthos howls out his climax, holding Athos in place and fucking his face as Athos drinks him down.

"That's something we could never have done when we were mating," says Porthos, dragging at Athos until he's back in his arms.

"At any other time though," says Athos with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "I believe alpha and omega couples had a perfectly normal sex life, except during heat."

"That's good to know," says Porthos, kissing Athos on the forehead, and it's as if he doesn't understand a thing of what's gone on between them.

"We're friends, Porthos," says Athos carefully. "Best of friends. Tomorrow we'll be back to normal and this must be put aside forever."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Rochefort get his comeuppance?

Their return to Paris is not an easy one, despite the fact that everyone is excited to have them back. The king invites them to a personal audience at court to announce how grateful he is for their safe return, and afterwards, whilst His Majesty is being briefed by Treville on Rochefort's part in this, Aramis manages a few quiet moments alone with queen, avoiding the attentions of Marguerite, the child’s governess, who has a very obvious crush on him. He has been tempted to use her to get close to his son, but it’s not in his nature to behave so poorly.

“But why would Rochefort kidnap you and your friends?” asks the queen, bemused by events. “Does he know about us?”

“He’s a madman,” says Aramis. He'd rather not divulge what went on at the keep, even to his lover. It happened, it’s over, and it seems, from their studied lack of communication with each other, that both Athos and Porthos wish it to remain in the past. 

“Rochefort is my friend,” says the queen stubbornly.

“Believe me, Majesty, he is not.” Aramis kneels and takes her hand in his. “He's not the man you knew when you were first at court. The things he did were despicable.”

“Then tell me so I have a chance of believing you,” says Anne in a low voice.

Aramis trusts her implicitly, but it’s still a difficult decision to make. In the end, however, he decides he has no choice but to give her a brief summary. “He experimented on us in order to bring back the old ways of alpha and omega.”

“And did it work?” she asks carefully.

“Athos almost died,” says Aramis, his jaw set in distress. “Rochefort will pay for his crimes.” He stands then goes over to the window, staring out at the endless blue sky in an attempt to push aside the memories. “Treville is informing the king now of what went on at the keep. If he doesn’t agree to an immediate execution, then we’ll take matters into our own hands.”

“Aramis no,” says the queen in horror. “This is not the way to seek justice. Rochefort must be allowed a trial.”

“A private one perhaps.”

“That’s not how the law works, and you know it.”

“The king is the law and he will decide,” says Aramis. In his opinion, Rochefort chose his own sentence long ago.

“Aramis, I'll not have us fight over this,” says the queen, taking hold of his hands. “You and our child are the only things precious to me.”

For Aramis, however, this is not true. He’s devoted to his brothers, and recent events have proved his loyalty lies first and foremost with them. He bows his head. “Your Majesty, I will not have Porthos nor Athos hurt any more than they have been already.”

He’s uncertain how things are between them when he parts company with the queen. Wary is a word that comes to mind, and he's still mulling this over when he bumps into Treville in the palace courtyard. The captain looks careworn and older than his years. This is taking its toll on all of them.

“And?” says Aramis simply.

“There will be a trial,” Treville says, “but if we don’t persuade Athos and Porthos to testify then Rochefort will undoubtedly be a free man before the week is out.”

Aramis takes off his hat and scrapes a hand through his hair. “We should have killed him,” he says. “ _I_ should have killed him when I had the chance.”

“It’s entrenched in us to do the right thing,” sighs Treville. “But this is the one time I wish it weren't so.” He mounts his horse. “Come on. I suppose we must break the news to the others.”

Back at the garrison, the soldiers are in the middle of their training regime, with Porthos knocking seven bells out of Durand, the next best in the regiment at hand to hand combat. Athos is reserved as he always seems to be now, content to watch d’Artagnan work on some of his moves against the dummy.

“Come spar with me,” says the youngster.

“Not today.” Athos shakes his head and Porthos glances his way in concern, getting upended by Durand who takes advantage of the sudden loss of concentration.

“Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan, my office now,” calls Treville, handing his horse to Jacques and striding up the wooden staircase with Aramis following on and the others just a few strides behind.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” says the captain, leaning forward, both hands planted on his desk. “But the king insists Rochefort must be given a trial.”

“A hearing or a trial?” asks Porthos.

“A public trial,” says Treville. “I'm certain Lemay will give a fair account of what happened.”

“But if we don’t testify then there’s no real case,” says Athos.

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. “That about sums matters up,” he says.

“Aramis and I will give evidence,” says d’Artagnan. “You and Porthos don’t have to do this.”

“I'm afraid we must,” says Athos. His hand goes instinctively to his neck and his eyes flicker in Porthos' direction.

Their affection for each other is obvious and Aramis wishes they would talk things out, rather than ignore the situation in hope that it will go away.

“I’ll try and convince the king into allowing a closed court," says Treville. "But I don't hold out much hope. He's grown to rely on Rochefort since the cardinal's death."

No one speaks of their regret at Treville not taking the position of first minister when it was offered to him, but they're all thinking it, the captain included.

“The queen may help,” suggests Aramis.

“But she's a friend of Rochefort,” says Treville, frowning at him in confusion.

“She's also a friend of the Musketeers." Aramis presses the flat of a hand to the wall, leaning wearily against it and hanging his head. For the sake of everyone's safety, he cannot explain what sway he has with the queen, but he hopes it will be enough. He'll seek her out again as soon as possible. Constance will help.

"I'm afraid she no longer has the influence she once did over the king," says Athos. He sighs heavily and it's apparent to Aramis that he's thinking of his wretched bad penny of a wife. Beautiful she might be and with intelligence to match, but Milady is a thorn in all their sides.

The next few days pass by in a blur. Aramis steals a moment with the queen, and after offering her explicit details of the events that happened during their captivity, she is convinced enough to plead on their behalf to the king. Unfortunately, as Athos suggested, he is immovable on the matter.

A day later, however, the Musketeers are called to court for a second private audience and with Milady on his arm, the king surveys his soldiers with a beneficent eye.

"You have apparently suffered a great deal at the hands of Rochefort, and Milady here has convinced me that it would be nothing but cruelty to have you suffer more." He sweeps his arm around in a magnanimous gesture. "The hearing will be in the small chapel in the palace this afternoon. There is no need to make a performance of it. You shall all tell your sides and I, being the law, will pass judgement."

"Thank you, Majesty," says Treville, initiating a quiet conversation with him to discuss details. 

Aramis pities the queen for being humiliated once again, and is moving a pace or two forward in order to speak with her when he overhears words between Athos and Milady.

"Why so cold, Athos?" she says. "You should be on your knees to me."

He glares at her. "The reason behind your influence over the king is yet another facet of your character that disgusts me."

"But you cannot deny that today you are grateful for it." 

He tips his head in a slight acknowledgment of this. "I suppose I am the lesser of two evils as far as you are concerned."

She smiles and Aramis would swear her expression was one of genuine affection. "You know me well, husband. Without the support of his cronies, Rochefort will inevitably hang and I will be rid of him."

" _We_ will be rid of him," says Athos and there is honest gratitude in his eyes.

Athos is silent on the ride back to the barracks and Aramis is determined to keep an eye on him during the next few hours. When he is this morose he inevitably turns to drink to ease his pain and, to be fair, today it would be justified.

"It will be over soon," promises Aramis quietly.

"I'm certain it will never be over." Athos stares fixedly ahead of him. "But I suppose there will be resolution of some sort." He glances briefly at Aramis. "I don't understand my wife. She had every chance to humiliate me, but she chose not to do it."

"Perhaps, in her heart, she too knows you're a good man."

As they turn in to the the gates of the garrison Athos huffs with quiet laughter. "Milady de Winter own a heart? I think not."

The hours pass quickly. There is no chance for preparation, but in reality, none is needed, and as they return to the palace at the appointed time, Aramis rides in between Athos and Porthos to offer counsel and support.

"How are you faring?" he asks.

Athos looks at him, faintly amused by his question. "It would be a better day if we didn't have to humiliate ourselves in court, but at least there is good reason to do so."

Porthos nods. "Rochefort will die and none of us will be wanted for his murder. A result, I'd say."

They arrive in good time and are shown through to the small chapel where, as promised, only a few necessary witnesses are in attendance.

All too often the king has it in him to be a buffoon, but today he is sombre, conducting the hearing with dignity. He listens to the testimonies of the doctor and the Musketeers, his face a mask when Athos dispassionately recounts the events that occurred during their imprisonment.

"And what reason did the Comte de Rochefort give for doing such a thing?" asks the king.

"He said he wished to test out his theory on us because we were a close unit of soldiers," says Athos.

"I don't think you believe him."

"I can only speculate on the subject and that would not be appropriate for a court." Athos looks weary, close to breaking point, and Aramis prays that he'll be allowed to step down.

"And how are you now, Athos?" asks the king.

"As well as can be expected, Your Majesty," says Athos before moving away to stand at Treville's side.

The king turns to his former advisor, who is looking less than immaculate after his time spent in the Châtelet. "Rochefort, what have you to say in defence of your actions?"

"I was coerced into doing it," says Rochefort.

"Whilst traipsing merrily back and forth to Paris?" counters the king. "I rather doubt that."

"I was thinking only of you and France, Majesty."

"By kidnapping my own Musketeers, lying about their deaths and then torturing them?"

"Scientific investigation," says Rochefort with a sibilant hiss. "Soon we will be at war with Spain, or even England, and we must have an edge over our adversaries."

"Lies, Rochefort. All lies." The king stands. "You performed vile experiments on good men for the simple reason that you enjoyed doing it."

"The Spanish corrupted me," says Rochefort. "They did these things to me. They tortured me until I was turned into one of theirs. You cannot punish me for that."

There is a heavy silence as the full significance of Rochefort's words sink in. Aramis stares at his friends in shock and utter relief.

Just to make certain, Treville steps forward. "Rochefort, you are confessing in front of the king that you are an agent of Spain?"

"Vargas did this to me," cries Rochefort. "You should have freed me from there."

"If you'd had some friends," mutters Porthos under his breath and despite everything Aramis chuckles, because in a few simple words the big man has summed things up perfectly.

The king looks at Rochefort in disgust. "I trusted you. I appointed you as my prime minister and you have dishonoured me. You will be taken from here and hanged immediately."

"But, Your Majesty." Rochefort prostrates himself at the king's feet. "This was done to me. Show mercy."

The king sighs. "Very well then, I am a kind man. I can be lenient when it is called for."

Treville rushes forward. "With respect, Majesty, Rochefort is guilty of torturing my Musketeers and I will not stand by-"

The king holds up a hand to silence the captain. "I _will_ show clemency, Rochefort, and reduce your sentence from hanging to one of beheading." He barely even glances downward. "Take him away, guards. He may see the priest for an hour before his execution. I'm certain he has many sins he'll wish to renounce."

At sunset, the five Musketeers gather in a line to stand in front of the wooden dais in the courtyard, close enough to hear the swipe of the swordsman's blade as it cuts through the air before making contact with flesh and bone. Porthos and Athos have both recently faced execution, Aramis is guilty of treason and could easily be kneeling on the platform himself. The idea of death doesn't frighten any of them, but neither are they bloodthirsty men, and they are not here to enjoy Rochefort's execution, but simply to make sure it is done.

Rochefort refuses a blindfold and raises his eyes heavenward before bending forward. Some executioners are incompetent and many are often drunk. Once Aramis witnessed a beheading where it took five attempts to slice through the man’s neck. This one is performed well enough, and with a single glint of steel Rochefort is no more, his head in a basket, the arteries pulsing blood.

Aramis hopes that both Athos and Porthos will gain some sense of relief from witnessing Rochefort’s death, but he doubts it very much indeed. The damage has already been done.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos takes a leave of absence to consider his future with the regiment.

In the end, it turns out to be something unexpectedly insignificant that causes Athos to break. With his feet planted firmly on the floor, he concentrates on staying upright, barely able to acknowledge Treville’s words with anything more than a look of utter disbelief.

“Me? But I’m not fit to lead anyone,” he says, so overwhelmed by the news that he’s close to collapse.

With Rochefort now gone, the king has offered Treville a place beside him in court as his right hand man and political advisor. He cannot refuse it a second time and it is this that has led to Athos being put in the most uncomfortable of positions.

“Athos, do you think I want to be a politician?” Treville snorts. “Really, man, I can’t think of anything I’d hate more, but we all have our duty to uphold. This is mine, and captaining the Musketeers is now yours.”

“Both Porthos and d’Artagnan would be far more suitable in command,” says Athos, keeping his eyes fixed forwards, focusing on the books on Treville’s shelf.

“But not Aramis, eh?” Treville paces the room, a hand wrapped around the back of his neck. “You must let go of what happened, Athos. You’re a fine soldier and I have every faith that you’ll make a great commander. The past is exactly that. Old news.” He opens the door of his cabinet, taking out a bottle of wine and two glasses and then pours, handing one to Athos. “I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted another soldier. Now show me some respect and do the same.”

Athos sinks slowly into one of the chairs and nurses the glass in both hands. “I cannot silence the omega in me,” he confesses. “I am not who I once was.”

“The suppressants aren’t working?” says Treville, steepling his fingers and leaning forward in concern. 

“They do their job,” says Athos, wondering how best to explain. It’s as if his omega side has been drugged into submission and chained up securely in a dungeon. There's no chance of escape, but it still bays for freedom. He reaches automatically for the bite at the base of his neck, wishing he could erase both it and the events that led to it in one fell swoop. “I’ll not go into heat. I don’t think I need the suppressants any longer to make sure of that.” It’s something deeper that's bothering him: an intrinsic part of his nature that makes so much sense now that it’s been revealed.

“Then command the regiment,” says Treville in a firm voice, his relief evident at hearing this news. “You need something to take your mind off your worries.” He swallows a mouthful of wine. “Athos, I’ve always considered you to be a friend as much as a subordinate.”

Athos feels the same and is pleased that Treville has acknowledged this. More limited in words than usual, he nods in agreement.

“So I hope you will take both the advice and the promotion I’m offering you.”

“May I have a few days leave to think it over?” says Athos, leaning across the desk to refill both glasses.

“Three days,” agrees Treville. “Provided you spend it well and not lying on the floor of a tavern.”

Athos smirks. It’s never easy to be confronted by one’s flaws. “Actually, I intend to visit Mme de Larroque,” he says. “She may be able to offer me some wisdom. She has a lot of it to spare.”

“A good idea,” says Treville. “But make sure you're gone no more than three days.”

Athos finishes his drink and then stands up. “One other thing, Captain. Please don’t tell the others where I’ll be staying. I need to be away from them, just for a while.”

Treville gets to his feet and offers Athos a hand. “Things will be different when this is your office,” he says. “There’s too much to be done as commanding officer to waste time moping.” He laughs at the affronted look Athos slings his way. “And don’t doubt for a minute that Porthos will accept you as captain,” he says quietly. “He admires and respects you, and nothing about that has changed.”

Wishing he could believe these final words, Athos leaves Treville’s office and trudges down the steps to collect a few personal items from his quarters and his horse from the stables. As he prepares for the journey, he sees Porthos watching from across the courtyard and longs to bridge the distance between them, but life has become a matter of self preservation. However hard he tries, he cannot yet sever the connection to his mate, and the absence of him hurts in a very physical way.

Athos spends the journey deep in contemplation, unaware of the passing of the hours. He arrives at the small village where Ninon has made her home and is delighted by the reception he receives. They are barely acquainted in terms of time, but Athos considers Ninon de Larroque to be a close friend.

She senses immediately that something is wrong and, after giving Athos a brief tour of the school and a cursory introduction to her students, she shows him to her private quarters where they sit side by side on the settee.

Here, Athos discovers his confessional and pours out his heart to Ninon, elbows resting on knees, head in his hands as he tells her everything that has happened to him recently, leaving out none of the gory details.

“That is the cruellest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says when he has finished recounting the tale. “I’m glad Rochefort is dead, but you yourself are a little to blame for the miserable state you are now in.”

“I’m to blame?” he says in disbelief.

“Men,” she says, shaking her head. “You are such ignorant creatures. How can you be stripped bare and brought to the edge of devastation and then expect to carry on as normal when all is over.”

Athos loves Ninon for the simple fact that she will tell him off at a time like this, rather than offer him platitudes.

“Come,” she says, showing him to her library of books. “You need to understand yourself better, Athos. This will show you the way to a more peaceful life.”

“So you’re a philosopher now as well as a revolutionary,” says Athos, remembering how to smile for the first time in weeks.

Leaving the students to their own devices, Ninon and Athos spend the evening learning all there is to know about alphas and omegas.

“You consider yourself as lesser now,” she says, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Why is that?”

“Not lesser perhaps, but certainly less powerful,” agrees Athos.

“You’ve always been a fine, physical man and you know it,” says Ninon with a smirk of approval. “Why has your opinion of yourself changed?”

“I suppose because of how I felt when I was in heat. I turned to Porthos for comfort and protection.”

“Who wouldn’t want both of those things during a time in which they were preparing to conceive?” asks Ninon. “I consider the ability to have children is a source of great power, and jealousy of it is probably the reason why women and omegas have been undermined throughout history.”

Athos sighs deeply. “There is something I didn’t tell you. Towards the end, Porthos and I mated fully and I…” He can’t put into words how important the bond is to him.

“And you want to know why you haven’t shed those feelings the way you did the rest?”

Athos shakes his head. “I accept now that I’m bonded to him.” He hangs his head. “But I want to know how I’m supposed to cope in a world that will never accept us as such. I’m neither beta nor omega. I’m married; I’m mated and yet, once again, I’m alone.”

“And how does Porthos feel about this?” says Ninon, putting the books back on shelves when she sees how late it has become.

“I haven’t asked him,” says Athos, and he can tell from the incredulous look on Ninon’s face that he’s in for a rough ride over this.

“Men!” she says again in utter disbelief before launching into a long speech on how useless they are as a species.

Once the lecture is over, Athos slinks away to his room and, surprisingly, sleeps better than he has done in years. He’s eaten well, talked himself to death, taken wine only in moderation and the break is already proving to be good medicine. He thinks, perhaps, he missed a trick by not coming to live here when Ninon first asked him, but at the time she’d invited him as a lover and his feelings for her weren't, and still aren’t sexual. He _had_ thought he desired her once, and that it was Anne who had been the stumbling block to their relationship, but he realises now that the reasons for his reticence were more deep seated than that.

Waking refreshed and with renewed spirit, Athos thoroughly enjoys his first full day here. To begin with, he keeps himself busy helping Ninon and the girls with their chores, but once the work is done, the pair of them escape, cantering across fields and meadows, chattering away as if both their lives depended on it.

“Aramis once warned me that you were a man of few words,” she teases on their return to the school. “Does he know you at all?”

“Your conversation intrigues me enough to join in with it,” replies Athos with an amused arch of his eyebrow.

“So, what you are saying is that your friends are dull.” Ninon offers him a sideways glance that’s laden with cunning.

“Hardly.” Athos hands his horse to the stable boy. “In fact they don’t rile me half as much as you do.”

“Good,” says Ninon, “because, from the look of things, one of them is here now. I sent a messenger to him last night.”

A horse is being groomed and watered and Athos would know that particular gelding anywhere. “Why would you do such a thing?” he demands, his tone accusatory as he turns to face Ninon. “I came here to get away from my troubles. I trusted you.”

“Then trust me a little longer,” says Ninon gently. “Facing this is the only way forward, Athos. Unless you wish to become a hermit rather than a commander.”

Heavy bootsteps can be heard crossing the yard, the sound echoing in and out of the stone buildings. 

“Hello, Athos,” says Porthos.

Pinned in place by a torrent of emotion, Athos can’t even turn to look at him. His exploration of the situation over the last two days has done nothing to ease the pressure on his heart. In fact, if anything, it’s even more weighed down.

“Go for a walk by the river,” suggests Ninon. “it's quiet down there. You can talk without being disturbed.” She smiles. “And you know where your room is when you run out of words.”

Athos watches her disappear back into the house, her steps a little jauntier for having come up with the plan of matchmaker, and with her goes his sense of security.

“Where’s this river then?” 

That voice resonates through him.

“Come on, Athos. Show me the way.”

Athos spins around slowly and there he is, big and beautiful, attempting to smile through his nerves. 

“The problem is that neither one of us knows the way,” he answers.

“But we can at least try and get there,” says Porthos.

A powerful hand presses against the base of Athos’ spine and it proves to be as erotic as the feel of bearded lips on his bite mark. “Do you have any idea of the chaos you cause in me?” Athos asks as they leave the stable yard and follow the overgrown path down to the river. "I can't think of anything else but you, and how much I want you."

“Believe me, I feel exactly the same way,” says Porthos, his voice gruffer than usual, churned up from a mixture of emotion and desire. “Why else d'you think I came racing down here full pelt? But there’s talking needs to be done before we can get on with the rest. Some at least.”

A lot of talking rather than just some, thinks Athos. He’s more knowledgeable on the subject after yesterday’s intensive course on the conventions of the old ways, but is still unsure of what he and Porthos actually are to each other -- mates, lovers, friends who want to sleep together.

“I’m no longer omega,” he says as he and Porthos cross the narrow wooden bridge and sit on the far river bank. “But that side of me hasn’t gone away.”

“I know. It’s like seeing the world with a new pair of eyes.” Porthos chucks a succession of tiny stones into the water.

“ _Feeling_ the world, is how I’d describe it,” says Athos.

“That’s it exactly.” Porthos turns to grin at him. “And I feel you. Here." He pounds his fist against his chest. "All the bloody time.”

“But what can we do about it?” says Athos, despondent again. “Treville’s insisting I take promotion, but we can’t be together-”

“Having a lot of sex,” interrupts Porthos.

Athos smirks. “When I’m living upstairs in the CO’s quarters.”

“Athos,” growls Porthos and an arm snakes around Athos’ shoulders, fingers teasing in gentle strokes across the bite mark. “If that’s the only thing in our way then we can learn to be inventive. We’ve been pushed into a corner and forced into having this as a gift. Let’s make the bloody most of it, eh?”

Athos has never thought of Porthos as a sweet talker, but these words prove magical and he finds himself leading the big man down to a hidden valley of grass, between the trees, where he and Ninon had picnicked earlier. Still racked with doubts, he panics as they lie down together and Porthos begins to kiss every exposed inch of skin, revealing more of it with deft fingers.

“We’ll be hanged for this,” he says in a sudden attack of certainty as Porthos unfastens his breeches.

“We’ll be careful, I swear.” Porthos looks down at him. "Don't forget the king knows our situation and will be sympathetic."

Athos' new awareness of the old ways tells him that His Majesty is a vestigial omega, which explains why the queen couldn't conceive, but he is still the same person, bad tempered, easily led and unpredictable, and Porthos is expecting too much of him. Unless Treville can wield influence over the man then there will inevitably be a new Rochefort, as there was a new Richelieu.

"And if he doesn't keep us safe then our friends will," adds Porthos.

“What if they don't agree with what we're doing?”

“Athos," growls Porthos. "You're being an idiot again. Our friends are our brothers. They know us and love us. More to the point, they understand what we’ve been through,” he says. “But honestly, right now I don’t give a damn about anyone but you.” He takes hold of Athos’ hand and presses the palm of it firmly against his hard cock, sighing softly as Athos exposes him, button by button, first to the elements and then to the attentions of his mouth.

“What’s strange is that I don’t think about the heat,” the big man adds, bucking upwards with pleasure as Athos licks him from root to tip. “I think about the night we spent together when it was over and we were safe.”

Athos is currently too busy to talk, but he mumbles his agreement, pulling Porthos into him, teasing his balls and raking a finger down the cleft of his bum.

Porthos squirms away. “Hold fire. I don’t want to come just yet,” he says, laughing and spreading himself over Athos like a blanket, cock resting snug against cock.

They may not be alpha and omega, mating in the old way and ready to breed, but kissing re-establishes that bond between them and they nip and lick, snarling playfully at each other as they rut bodies together. Athos will never quite comprehend what’s happened to them--how and why they are so different--but he's beginning to understand _who_ they are, and for the first time, get to know himself.

Loved up and talked out, they return to the school building, as comfortable as they have ever been with one another. The sun is slipping behind the hills, the day is over and there is another full one to come before they must return to Paris.

"Are you still angry with me, Athos?" smiles Ninon as she pours out glasses of wine for them on their return.

"I was irritated rather than angry," he says with a quirk of his eyebrow, and reaching instinctively for Porthos' hand he then drops it as if it were hot coal when he realises what he has done.

"You're safe here," Ninon assures them. "My private quarters are as private as anyone could wish for."

"Athos worries that we'll forget ourselves when we return to Paris," says Porthos. "I do too, if I'm honest."

"You're both intelligent men," says Ninon. "Show restraint where necessary."

"I wish it were as simple as that," says Athos, glancing sideways at his mate. How on earth can he explain this to someone who has not experienced it? Ninon is a cerebral woman. Mind overcoming matter, is her mantra. "My omega may have retreated, but all my senses are still heightened, honed specifically to be with Porthos."

"And you must learn to disregard them if you are to be his commander," says Ninon."Your omega stands up to me well enough. You're wilful in the best way."

"He is," laughs Porthos, slapping an arm around Athos.

Athos senses a frison of sexual tension in the air and knows that Ninon is thinking about what it would have been like to take him as a mate in the old way. Both she and Anne are powerful alphas and, perhaps, if he had been fully omega he would have accepted them more easily, the tables turned the way they were supposed to be. "How does an alpha female mate with an omega male?" he asks.

"Steady," grins Porthos, hand clamping over the bite to remind Athos of their status.

Athos smiles at him in delight, because with all the will in the world he cannot help but enjoy their relationship for what it is. "I'm interested," he says. "The omega is always the one to carry children. How does that work?"

"I have no idea," says Ninon, standing up peruse the library shelves for some of her more ancient texts on physiology.

Over dinner she reads them passages from the books, and the more wine they drink, the more bizarre the facts seem and, before long, the evening descends into farce.

"What are you doing, woman?" snorts Porthos.

Ninon is holding a candle between the apex of her thighs and looking down at it thoughtfully. "Imagining what it must be like to grow a cock during the breeding. I think I'd like it."

"Best of both worlds," slurs Porthos who is drunk and playful. 

Athos wants to play with him now. "I think I'll take him to bed before he falls over," he says with a half smile.

"You must," agrees Ninon. "Even between the two of us we'd not manage to carry a lump like him up the stairs."

"'M no lump," slurs Porthos.

"You're a lump, but a fine one indeed and Athos is lucky to have you," laughs Ninon.

Athos appreciates many things about Ninon de Larroque. In addition to her intelligence and humour, she's gracious and understanding, but most of all she's kind and he's never been so grateful for the wealth of friends he now possesses. He was a lonely man until he gave everything up, and now he is rich in all the ways that matter. He is where he belongs. 

"Thank you, chérie," he says as between them they help Porthos to his feet.

"Sleep well," she answers. "Be happy, Athos."

"I think perhaps I finally am," he confesses with a genuine smile.

The two men ascend the staircase with difficulty and, after helping Porthos with his ablutions, Athos undresses him and tucks him up in bed. He then tends to his own needs, stripping down to underthings and shirt, and then goes to climb in next to his mate.

"All of it off," says Porthos, his voice a deep rumble of desire. "I want you naked now."

Athos turns and grins, removing braies and chemise and already hard at the idea of sex. "I thought you were too drunk to perform?"

"Never," says Porthos holding out his arms. "And you're a cheeky bastard, Athos, acting all high and mighty as if you never have a drop to drink."

"I'll have a drop now," smirks Athos, pulling back the covers. 

Porthos' braies are unlaced and his cock is in his hand. His face turns a ruddier shade of brown as Athos dives with delight between his legs. "Watching you get ready for bed gave me a hard on," he confesses.

Athos licks up the length of his shaft then swirls his tongue around the crown, enjoying every inch of him until he's gently pushed aside and onto his back.

"I've never had a go at this," says Porthos as he leans over and covers Athos' cock with kisses.

Athos tucks his hands behind his head and lets Porthos go to town on him. They've tongued every part of each other when in heat, but that was different: breeding rather than sex. He has a feeling that this might be a lot more like love.

On the prowl, Porthos crawls upwards and with fingers greased from lamp oil, he delves into Athos, opening him up. They kiss, murmuring nonsense words to each other, and then twist and turn languidly in the bed, wet cocks leaving glistening trails over skin until Athos is on all fours with Porthos curved over him, licking at the bite then scraping it with his teeth, pushing Athos close to insensible.

"Now," he demands and Porthos slams into him, hard and heavy until Athos rears back, pulling Porthos' hand to his cock and then arching around to take his mouth with determined kisses.

They come one after the other and then collapse into the sheets, spooned up and shattered.

"Wilful," says Porthos, nibbling at the bite as he wraps an arm around Athos' waist. "I like it. Just how my captain should be in bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this and encouraging me to post. I nearly bottled it several times and if it hadn't been for the awesome comments I'm sure I would have done. Now I can go back to the normality of posting This Poisoned Earth. Heh.
> 
> <3


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